


The Brave Thing

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2012, courtesan!Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:04:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>purpledolphin9's gift for the Tumblr #Rumbelle Secret Santa. Prompt was "Whispers In the Dark". Belle decides to do the brave thing, and leave the Salmon Victorian, but Rumplestiltskin won't let her go without a last hurrah. Courtesan!Belle headcanon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eleanor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purple-dolphin9](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=purple-dolphin9).



> This follows my courtesan!Belle headcanon -- full argument in favour in "Forever". There's a taste of Red Beauty in there, if you care to look for it.

Ruby was kind enough to give Belle a ride, but even the village werewolf feared the Beast that lived in the salmon Victorian. Belle saw warm colours, beautiful stained glass windows, an inviting porch. She knew that inside, it was cluttered as hell with knick-knacks, antiques, and accumulated junque that he moved around from time to time. In the Dark Castle, things moved themselves according to his whimsy by magick; things still moved now, but not quite so far.  
Even Belle wasn’t going very far. And in a way, it was still his doing – the ‘few favours’ he’d called in to get her set up at the library. It was hardly a couple blocks from Gold’s shop, situated in the middle of the town’s business district, not too far from restaurants and shops and everything… but it might as well have been another planet.  
She climbed the steps, remembering her first impression when Mr. Gold brought her here – when he’d promised he’d protect her. The lost look in his eyes, like he was afraid he would look back to her, and see she had vanished. She’d been too grateful at the time for his soft voice, the warm wood and textiles, his gentle hands leading her in, following, watching.  
And now she was leaving him. Her stomach churned, and she twisted her fingers, biting a lip. How was that gratitude? Taking her in when she didn’t know her own name, little more than a scared, hungry doll. Handling her so carefully, worrying and fussing and tending for her. Now, again, he had saved her from her own naivete, proving what a child she was. But she was her own woman. She’d not be a shiny thing on his shelf, collecting dust, kept from the world for his own jealous affections. Nor would she be a potted plant for her father. She was _Belle_. She was brave, determined, and if hapless, she was going to choose her own fate. Not even Rumplestiltskin was going to make her decisions for her.  
She untangled her fingers, and smoothed out her dress. She took a calming breath, and looked over her shoulder to the little red car. Ruby did a passable impression of an encouraging smile, and even gave a thumbs up. Half-hearted though it was. Belle was grateful for the attempt. She took a steadying breath and returned to the mahogany door, and raised a fist to knock.  
She wondered if maybe he’d been standing there, waiting for the knock. And if so for, how long?  
There he was – Mr. Gold, the Dark One. Her master, saviour, (lover?), self-proclaimed Beast and coward in denial. Too scared to truly give it his all, no matter how much good it would do him. Her heart bled for him. He was _so close_.  
His face was cool and detached. I twas the face that lied – or rather, spoke such twisted truths, they weren’t to be trusted – that he wore when he did his Dark deeds. When he danced around the desperate souls that were his ticket to anything his heart desired – everything but what his heart truly needed. Only honesty could win him that, and he was too terrified to do it. She hated it, because she’d seen him without the mask, seen him open, vulnerable, genuinely proud of himself and his accomplishments, and yet he hid behind it… She tasted bile in the back of her throat. This is why she was doing this. Perhaps he would learn the hard way that she was sincere. She hoped he would find the courage to do what was right.  
“Miss French.” His voice was soft, quiet, but it cut sharp as a dagger. His mud brown eyes flipped to the waiting car. One hand held the door, the other his cane. “Miss Lucas is joining you?”  
“She’s my ride,” Belle answered. _She hated this._ Still, she held her head high, and looked him right in the eye. “She’s helping me take my things to the library.” Things that weren’t truly hers. Even the clothes on her back came from Rumplestiltskin. She looked down in shame, and couldn’t help it that her eyes settled on his third foot. Her fingers tangled again, against the soft cotton of the very comfortable, lovely skirt he had blessed her with. “You said you have things for me?”  
She watched his hips, shifting almost imperceptibly under the perfectly tailored suit, before he stepped back – it left more to the imagination than the leather, she thought with a wicked blush. Still, she could just picture the curve of his form underneath. The cane was no prop, but he did his best to distract attention from it. Regardless, it caught her eye again, as if it were all she could see. The dark mahogany was handsome, and she knew the handle was simple, the tool strong and solid, for carrying his weight with ease. He moved with a kind of grace that said he’d walked with it… Forever. It still bothered her.  
A wave of his hand snatched at her eye – he was gesturing up the stairs. “There are things in your room.” He let the mask slip just enough for a weary sigh, and a glimpse of sad eyes before he replaced it. He placed his weight on his good leg, and rested his hands on the cane.  
She forced her eyes up the stairs. Second door on the left. Something twitched at her lips as she wondered if he’d left the window open since she’d left. Curious, she started up the steps, but paused.  
“Are you not coming up?” she asked. So long as he stood in the doorway, he had an audience. And so long as he had an audience, the mask would stay on. And he would not be _her_ Rumplestiltskin. He had a reputation to protect, and she _hated_ it.  
“I’m sure you can manage for a little while, dearie,” he replied, something nasty curling at his lips. She didn’t miss the way his eyes swept over her, enjoying the fact that she was once more in his house, wearing his clothes, and doing what he wished. Library or no library, there was still a contract in place – it was forever. She was still his, and she knew it. She wasn’t entirely sure if he did, but she was very much aware of it. It would be a lie to say she didn’t enjoy the effect she had on him, much like he had on her. But now was not the time for such things.  
He took note of this first, turning to study a small cabinet on the landing. “If not, Miss Lucas is here.” His hands clutched the cane in stubbornness.  
She mused over the sharp bite in his voice as she took the rest of the stairs. Was it jealousy, or impatience?  
The window was still open, and the bed was still mussed. In fact, she wondered if it wasn’t worse, but it was covered in parcels and packages, boxes and bags, all a variety of colour, and emblazoned with names and places she’d never read before. Her eyes widened as she took it all in. Were these all new things? She rifled through the tissues and found dresses, blouses, skirts, hats, shoes – each thing more beautiful than the last. The black leather purse had paperwork detailing a lifetime warantee, and the wallet was already stocked with cards – one that detailed her new residence at the library, another with a string of numbers, both addressed to ‘ISABELLA FRENCH’. A small, rolling wardrobe contained delicates and under things in an array of cotton, lace and silk, some for comfort, and others for décor. She recognised a theme of gold in most of the finer things, and knew for certain that her face was red from blush. He was very thorough.  
She was so overcome, she had to just….sit. And weep.  
 _All of this_ , she thought. _And I still have to leave him._  
By the time a wide-eyed Ruby stepped into the room, Belle was numb from the shock of it.  
Ruby, too, touched at the dresses, buried in piles of finery and tissue and wrappings, until she realised what she was looking at. Her eyes swept the room, covered in lavish gifts, and her jaw dropped. _“Wow,”_ she breathed. “I know they say money can’t buy you love, but… _damn_. He sure tries.”  
Belle let out a desperate sound, and the werewolf’s smile faltered. She took a perch beside the oh-so-very-well-kept woman, crowded by the fine apologies. She took Belle’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She tried the reassuring smile, and did a better job of it this time. Belle raised a hand to wipe away her tears.  
She sniffed. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Well, he does this sort of thing all the time.”  
Ruby’s eyebrows disappeared into her mane. “Fill your room with a fortune in couture?”  
Belle grinned, sly. “Bribes me to forgive him with gifts,” she agreed, nodding. But her eyes still stared at it all. Quietly, she added, “But it’s usually just… A book. With tea, and roses.”  
Ruby snorted. “Boy are you easy to please.”  
The pair of them giggled. It released the shell of ice that had threatened to encase her, and the friend helped remind her of her purpose. This was nice – the easy company. Soft hands holding hers, kind fingers stroking hers, resting in Ruby’s lap. She let out a happy sound, and Ruby smiled, too.  
“So,” she ventured. “How much do you want to take?”  
Belle choked out an exasperated breath. “Gods, I have no idea. I… Should take none of it.” She knew Ruby was frowning at her, and couldn’t bear to look. It was so hard to explain. Even harder to _do_. “But I’m already leaving. It would be cruel if he knew I wasn’t taken care of. And if he can give me such fine things… I know it brings him a comfort.”  
The stroking fingers stilled. She could feel the animal fear there.  
“…You know how it is,” she said, with a wry smile. “Men like to mark what’s theirs.”  
Ruby made a pensive sound. “Sounds a bit creepy when you put it like that.”  
Belle blushed, and groaned. “I don’t know how else to say it.” There was an awkward moment, where she fought for the words, but Ruby wasn’t pressing her for them… So she stopped trying. “But personal vendetta aside, he _did_ buy them for me.” That much made her blush, pleased again that he was thinking of her. “It would be a shame to see such nice things go to waste.”  
“Hey, whatever you don’t want, I will _happily_ take.” Her eyes raked over the bags. “Dark One or not, you have _Armani_ in here.”  
Belle giggled. “I take it that’s good?”  
 _“Good?”_ Ruby gaped at her. “Armani is more than good. Armani is a _financial_ investment.”  
That fondness was on her face and she knew it. It betrayed her, and she knew Ruby could see it.  
“Nothing but the best, naturally.”  
The pair of them jumped, and Ruby clutched Belle’s hand to her chest. Belle pursed her lips at the man in the doorway. He had that self-righteous smirk, when he could prove he was right. Belle was not the best liar, and it was hard for her to hide anything – especially from him – but it hurt knowing he had been spying on her. He didn’t trust her – or didn’t have the courage to believe her – and she _hated_ it.  
She put on a mask of stubbornness to match his.  
But the mask faltered. And he let it hang there, his lips very still, but the pleading shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to leave, Belle.”  
There was a thickness to his voice that she recognised. And it made it very hard for her to be strong, but she was determined to do it. “I do.”  
Gold looked to Ruby, who was clinging to Belle, more like a lost puppy than a fierce lycanthrope. He let the mask of derision rise again. “Very well. Then I would like to make a deal with you.”  
Ruby’s eyes widened, and she looked to Belle, an unspoken warning of panick shining in her eyes. Belle kept her eyes on Gold. “Leave Ruby out of this.”  
He let out a breathy chuckle. “Of course, my dear.” His eyes sparkled. The mask let through his impish amusement. His twisted sense of humour always came through, but only with the darkest shades.  
Belle pursed her lips. Dealing with Rumplestiltskin was always tricky. “What did you have in mind?”  
He took a step in, his cane a note on the wood floor. “All of these…things.” He gestured around to the varying gifts around them. “They’re not free.” He rested his hands on the cane. “You know as well as I do what I charge for such…gifts.”  
Her eyes narrowed. Rumplestiltskin could be a very cruel, vulgar man. And when he didn’t like something, and when things didn’t go his way, he could take it out on whoever was convenient. “What did you have in mind?” she repeated. She’d learned not to be led. If you didn’t make him say it, the limit was only his contemporary imagination.  
He tilted his head as if to consider it. “Well, we have a previous arrangement. Granted, with you no longer living under my roof, the need for you to pay rent as caretaker will be null and void.”  
She felt the heat of a blush on her skin. _‘I need a caretaker for my… rather large estate.’_ She hadn’t known it at the time, but back in Avonlea, Rumplestiltskin had not spoken of the Dark Castle – the place had been abandoned long ago, and he’d moved into it because no one dared to go there. Should have been hinted at when he first gave her the list of obligations – laundry, meals, tea, straw. When he mentioned housework, it was 'clean the Dark Castle', not _his_ Dark Castle. He did not rightfully own it, and therefore could not rightfully declare it as his ‘estate’. When he spoke of an estate, he spoke of himself – the corporeal thing that he inhabited. One of his cleverer twists of truth.  
“Do you need my services one last time before I go?” she asked, cutting to the gist.  
Her impatience wounded him. The mask slipped, and she caught the grimace of pain. But he only nodded. “One more night of service to me, dearie.” His voice was soft, and a bit kind. Not too much, for the audience, but enough. He added a flourish, and put on a mocking smile. “I’ll even provide you with an evening meal.”  
“Tonight, then.”  
His jaw clenched. “Very well. Five o’clock?”  
“Seven,” she countered. His eyes narrowed. Belle saw Ruby look at her with awe from the sideline.  
“…Seven it is.” And then his lips spread into a wicked grin as he raised a finger to jab in her direction. “Wear blue.”  
She felt like her face was on fire, but she nodded. “As you wish.”  
Mr. Gold looked smug. It was a farce, and she knew it, but let him keep up his charade. He nodded in mock courtesy to Ruby, and said, “Ms. Lucas. I appreciate your patience. I give you your Belle once more.” And then he turned on his heel and clicked away down the hall.  
When the door to his study closed behind him, Ruby let out a harsh breath. “Dear God, Belles, you are _nuts_ to do that.”  
She smiled softly. “Yes. Madly in love.”  
Ruby shook her head, staring at the floor. “No accounting for taste.” And then she looked around at the gifts. “But, hey, maybe with such heartfelt apologies, it’s worth his grumpiness?”  
Belle laughed, humourless. “Hardly.”  
The two shared a giggle. “Well, let’s get these things back in their bags.” Her eyes widened. “I don’t think you’ll have closet space for all of this, so we’ll need to stop by the hardware store on the way there…”  
Ruby prattled on, and Belle answered in kind as the two gathered up the fine gifts. In his study, Rumplestiltskin sat in his fine, Italian leather armchair, at his fine, mahogany desk, with his fine, crystal watch, and his fine, moleskine ledgers, and his fine, Arabian carpets, and his fine, European artwork. All of the fine things and luxuries he’d dealt for himself, so he could have a fine life in this new world. The mask had fallen, and he held his cane between his legs, resting his hands and forehead on the top if it, silently weeping for the treasure that he could never keep.


	2. Whispers In the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a lot of drops of the main prompt - "Whispers In the Dark" by Skillet - but also a drop of something else. ;) Points to those who catch it before the answer at the end.

It took forever for five o'clock to come. And blessedly, she was twenty minutes early.  
It wasn’t like he had a high tower he could watch from, steps that he could skip down like a lovestruck youth. Not with his accursed knee. Not now that he was lame. _Again._ His body mocked him daily, spry for his age (particularly three centuries) but creaking and pained, always.  
 _Always._  
Heart damages, as well. He stepped away from the curtains when he saw the small red car turn the corner. She could have walked… But instead, she had Ruby give her a ride. Just as well. Gold positioned himself before the door, straining his ears to listen.  
The distant sound of a car door. The car driving off, like a bat out of hell. He tried not to take that with some personal pride. It was a long, painful, drawn out moment, before her knuckles knocked, tentative, perhaps even obligated.  
He grimaced. He hated having to play the bastard.  
He opened the door to her, and his breath caught.  
She was a vision in blue. The stars of the night sparkled behind her, as even the heavens marveled at her beauty. Her chestnut locks were tied up, pinned up, and he spotted the teasings of ribbons wrapped within the tresses. Simple makeup – brown eyeshadow, and the red lips of a wanton woman, marking her as his mistress. Just as much as the silk – blue as the specks of abalone, like a bright spring day, like the eyes that looked up at him, withdrawn, yet betraying a taste of hopeful – that clutched her form like a lover, marked her.  
She was every bit as lovely as the day they first met.  
He couldn’t help the tiniest smile that threatened to break through his mask. “Hello, my dear.” He opened the door all the more, and waved for her to enter with his cane. Her eyes followed the line of the wood, and then the floor, and she walked in without a word. He felt his jaw tighten – that damned cane – and closed the door. She stood there, in the hallway, her shoulders drooping. He felt his chest tighten.  
“The… dress suits you,” he tried, resting his hands on the cane.  
She looked at him sideways. “Thank you.”  
There was a long moment, there, where neither of them said anything. He, too, was dressed in his usual finery, as if they were to impress anyone except each other. He finally cleared his throat – a small gesture – and moved past her to the kitchen. She followed, silent.  
 _She should not be so silent_ , he told himself, and it troubled him. But it also troubled him that she had left, and that she was leaving for _good_ , now. Not permanently – not like before, when she’d left disgraced and abused, and then thought to be lost to Hades, but… Just at the Library. It was close, and safe, and it was enough to keep him from going crazy about it. Enough room for her to be comfortable – without him – and yet, still safe. Where he could watch over her. And help her, if she had need of it.  
The kitchen table was set. Dinner for two, a fine cut of steak, sauteed vegetables, two glasses and a bottle of wine. He led her to a chair and carefully pulled it out, let her scoot herself in. He felt useless even doing that, and limped to his own seat before joining her.  
“It’s not much,” he said, quietly, “But it’s for you.”  
She only nodded. “Thank you.”  
She took her fork and knife and began to eat. She took a piece of meat and cut off a manageable size before placing it betwixt her so perfect lips, and he watched her mouth work the food, her jaw so graceful and soft to touch…  
He sighed, quiet, and turned his attention to the wine. He pulled off the cork, and poured for the both of them. He took a sip of his wine, not enjoying the taste at all, and tucked in to his own meal.  
She was on her second glass, and he about two-thirds of the way through his steak, when she gave a small laugh.  
It startled him, and he looked up with eyes of a spooked animal. “What?”  
She gave him that warm smile, the one that always left him scrambling for the words that he was usually the master of so readily. “I was just wondering what on earth that poor cow did to deserve your wrath,” she answered, nodding to his plate.  
He looked down and realised that he had not been so much eating his dinner as destroying it. Tender morsels were shredded all over the place, grease and juices decorating the plate in a bloody display, the vegetables so abused, some had left his plate in a desperate retreat. She laughed again as a kind of shame covered his features.  
She tsked, shaking her head. “Really. You worry far too much.”  
He tried a shy smile, looking up at her. But the kindness in her eyes was almost painful. He started to scoop the decimated dinner into a more orderly collection, and her hand touched his. He stopped, his his attention sharp to her touch. It was the one with the knife. A trembling hand dropped the fork, and covered hers. He looked up at her again, and that dark softness, that wanton fondness, coloured her face. His breath caught, and she leaned forward. Ignoring a groan in his knees, he stretched his shoulders forward, and their lips met in the middle, a soft, tentative, yet welcome kiss.  
When it broke, it was again of her doing. Her eyelashes fluttered, dark against her blushed cheeks. Breathless, Gold returned to his own space, as she settled back into hers. Awe, disbelief at this wonderful creature that was here. With him. For him. It was unreal. She gave him that coy smile and raised her eyebrows at him over her wine as she sipped again. Something pleased tugged at his lips, and he returned to his meal with a lighter heart.  
Dinner descended into normality. He asked her peculiarly polite questions about the library, her new home, her newfound companion in Miss Lucas. She answered with the bubbling excitement and curiousity he had always loved in her, and by the time there were quips and unladylike sniggers, the bottle was empty, and their plates long clean.  
A laugh died between them, when he realised that dinner was over. There was no excuse, anymore. Particularly as she downed the last sip of her wine. When she set the glass aside, the quietness made her own smile falter.  
She cleared her throat. “I’ll get the dishes.”  
He opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him a warning eye. He clenched his jaw, instead gripping his cane as she moved about him. The blue silk hugged her curves, the generous neckline giving just the hint of cleavage, until she bent over the table to collect his dishes from him, and then the valley between her bosoms was quite clear. He let his eyes wander over the soft porcelain, attempting to dedicate it to memory, because tonight might be the last chance he had to properly enjoy it.  
He watched her start the water, and suds up a scrubber. Something in his stomach flipped, making his precious Belle work, but at the same time, he was flattered she still fussed over him so much. It was bittersweet.  
Over the rush of the water, she didn’t quite hear the ‘click’ of his cane, and jumped slightly when he pressed himself against her.  
She gave a soft smile. “Hello, Rumplestiltskin,” she greeted, her voice low and breathy.  
One hand slipped around her, touching the silk against her stomach, while his face buried itself into her neck. “Hey,” he replied, but it was hardly a word, so much as a whisper, a growl. She kept on scrubbing as his lips caressed her skin with open-mouthed kisses, and then to her shoulder, where he plucked at her skin. When he sucked, her grip faltered enough for a dish to slip.  
 _This_ was why he was the Dark One. Leaning heavily on his cane, he covered her skin with his mouth and collected her between his teeth, gently increasing pressure until she gasped. A shift of weight, and she was leaning against him. He held them both, even as his hand guided her hips to one side. He moved his oral assault higher, and bit again, sucking hard on the skin, leaving a dark red welt as a mark. For good measure, he did another even higher (her head rolled to the side to let him have his way) and prided himself in the fact that _none_ of the things he had bought her (well, maybe that one black blouse) would be able to cover it. She was _his_ , and damned if he wasn’t going to make sure everyone knew it…  
He scarcely heard her faint whimper, as his nose and lips ghosted over the marks. He caressed them with his tongue, and gentle kisses. He hugged her close, inhaling the scent of her, feeling the ribbons in her hair, and nuzzled her ear, then kissed her temple. He let out a heavy breath himself.  
She moved in his arms, and he leaned back, loosened his grip, so she could move beneath him. The feel of her legs against his was intoxicating, and when she leaned back against the sink, he could see her eyes were already dark with anticipation of the forthcoming activities. He traced the line of her face with a thumb, again attempting to dedicate every last detail to memory. The way her part lips trembled, a garish red against her porcelain skin, her all-natural blush, her brilliantly blue eyes dull and heavy from lust and drink. _He loved it._  
His lips took hers, and he could still taste their dinner there, and underneath it, the impossible to detect, but _ever there_ taste of _her_. The elusive thing he could hardly remember, and dreamt of finding, but it was only here, in moments like this, when he could truly _taste_ her.  
She murmured softly against him, and he heard his cane hit the ground as his hand took to the sink instead, tucked against her hip, fingers clawing around the counter. The other was at the nape of her neck, tangling into her loosely bound hair, his mouth devouring her, full of a desperate want and need that she answered too readily, her own hands wandering, slipping under his suit, and teasing at the layers he still wore. _Armour_ , and lots of it. If she wanted to get through them all, it would take time and dedication, but he would let her, if she wanted.  
Still, in this position, they didn’t get much farther than breathless caresses and kisses. Finally, they broke away, each staring at the other, so much needing to be said, but not enough sobriety (or courage?) to say anything.  
Her finger stroked his cheek, and his eyes closed, leaning into her touch. Her thumb caught on the scruff that was growing there, and he nuzzled into her palm, kissing her soft skin. It tasted faintly of dish soap.  
A smirk quipped at his lips. “I’ve distracted you from your chores,” he noted, with devilish pride, his nose wrinkling.  
She nodded. “Yeah.” But her eyes were staring at his lips, and she leaned forward to kiss them again. He welcomed it, and clutched her close. This time, when they broke apart, it was his impatience, not breathlessness.  
“Well, dearie, I don’t think these things are going to get done quite yet tonight.” He leaned on his good leg, slipping the other from where it’d been resting comfortably against her soft form. He looked to the side, to see where his crutch had fallen. “Fetch my cane? Perhaps we can find a better suited setting for these… escapades.”  
She tried to smile, but the light didn’t reach all the way. Instead, her eyes sought out his tool, and she twisted around him – his breath caught, and his hand rested on her hip, feeling the taut muscles and soft flesh as she bent over. He smiled, enjoying the curve of her form, his hand sliding down her backside, squeezing with a claw, and threatening to go down her leg when she turned back around, cane in hand. Cane in hand, he led the way out of the room, and she followed, her heels marking a beat against his own.  
“What do you think?” he teased, passing the doorway of the dining room. “Dining room? Living room? Your room? My room?” He grinned. “The foyer?”  
She gave him a look. “I think a bed, for certain. Yours or mine, as you like.”  
He nodded, debating. Considering what it was they were doing – a last hurrah, as it were – he was tempted to desecrate her room one last time, but the quiet voice that knew what lonely nights felt like whispered that the numbness of his own scent would leave him to stare at the ceilings, while the attempts to capture the last of her in his own sheets would provide him with a temporary peace. It would be gone, soon enough. This way, he had two such treasure troves to enjoy.  
“M-mine,” he answered. He spared her a glance. “If that’s alright with you.”  
She smiled, and nodded. “Quite.”  
She’d managed to keep her pace to his, not hurrying him, to where he hadn’t noticed, had forgotten the cane. Had forgotten that he was an old man and a cripple, besides the usual care he took when taking his steps. She had her arm in his, and it felt more companionable than assistance, and he could fool himself it was out of anticipation rather than a concern for his brittle body.  
A flip of the switch, and the room was flooded with light. To his surprise, she flipped it back off, and closed the door behind her.  
“Dearie?” he asked, his voice soft, and unsure.  
“Shh…” Her hands found him in the dark, her fingers touching at him, searching for him. He felt her move around him, and she brushed her lips against his.  
It was a tease. Her mouth left his gaping and unsatisfied, while her nimble fingers took to his coat, slipping under and urging it off his shoulders. He was too quick to assist, and there was the tell-tale clatter of a cane once more. If he stayed very still – and was very careful – he could stand and let her minister. He licked his lips as he watched her face – determined, with that little crease in her brow where she concentrated – as she eased the tie undone. He felt the silk slip around his neck, and then the decoration was on the floor. Her fingers took to the buttons of his shirt, and he rested his hands on her hips.  
The silk of the dress was so very fine, and yet layered so you could not see beneath. He wondered which of the frilly underthings she’d picked for the night. Curious if she’d worn blue, or something else, as a quip that he did not specify _everything_ need be blue. The clever vixen did that kind of thing. He pressed his fingers into her hips, using her to steady himself out of habit as she tugged his shirt out, but when she started toying with the belt in front of him, the fingers became claws, and his breathing ragged.  
Once unbound, her hand slipped in, cupping him. He let out a primal growl, and brought his lips to hers. Hungry, he took her mouth, and pressed her hips to his, not caring for how he swayed. One hand moved to the small of his back, holding him close, the other stroking along his length.  
The ever present ember flickered into flames, and now a rumbling fire roared within him. The only thing that could quench his hunger was more of _her._  
Like a waltz, they turned, Rumplestiltskin leaning on his Belle far more than he would ever openly admit to anyone. His eyes flashed in a moment of clarity when his back met the covers, but the next moment she was at his feet, pulling off his shoes, her hands whispering up his legs, and tugging off his trousers and pants. He let out a breath that might have been a plea, had there been words.  
“You know I’m not truly leaving you, right?” she whispered from the dark. His breath caught, and his head tilted up, and he fought to look for her, hearing the silk slip against her skin, and then pile in a pool on the floor. The next moment, she was over him, eyes so full of love and adoration that he didn’t deserve. His lips trembled, and she captured them in a sweet kiss.  
He could taste the salt. But when he reached up a hand to brush away her tears, he realised she wasn’t the one crying.  
“I’m just there,” she whispered again, her hands on either side of his face, even as the softness of her flesh rested on either side of his hips. But much as his groin wanted her, his heart was caught by her words. She kissed at his temple. “Only at the library. Never far away. If you ever need me…” Another kiss. “I’ll always be there.”  
“Oh, Belle…” His arms wrapped around her, and he wanted so to just wrap his _everything_ around her, and rolled her to the side, covering her neck with kisses. She gave soft sounds of approval, and he kept on, sucking gently, then harder, and biting, the love marks like rose petals, beautiful and red against her pale skin. He wanted to clothe her in them, cover her from head to toe with them, and ventured lower, endeavouring to do so. She let out a hiss as he took to the tender flesh of her breast, and only then paused to investigate what she had left.  
The bra that clutched her bosom was low cut, covered in lace the purple of orchids or the late night sky, the telltale stitches of his own gold thread a railing that kept them in. His fingers caressed the line he had drawn, his touch making her teat harden. She squirmed beneath him, and he looked up at her.  
“I know, it’s not blue,” she whispered, her red lips parting only enough for the words. “But I remember you once suggesting I start wearing purple.”  
He took her in his mouth again, and his hands clutched at her desperately, sliding down her back, hooking around the soft roundness of her arse, and to her thighs, where he dug his nails in, scraping the skin. She let out a hiss, breaking from his lips, and let out a murmur.  
“My sweet…” he whispered. “Would you like to see the stars?”  
It was a scarce sound, but he knew it to be her nervous, bedroom laugh. To see starbursts from behind her eyes, from the tremendous orgasm he would give her, time and again. For all his vulgarities, sometimes there were sweet mistruths. “Only if you come see them with me.”  
In a writhing union of claws and teeth, breathless gasps and shuddering moans, roses and kisses and whispers in the dark, the beauty ministered to her broken beast, taking him as he took her, promising fire and stars, and a forever of a new kind in this new world. He had a work to do, and she would not let herself get in his way, would not let _him_ let her get in her way. There was so much in the world she had to learn, but she knew that he would guide her, as would her books and her new friends, much as he wanted to pretend he was all she needed. But if they ran to each other, found each other, and held each other, then they would never be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I thought that some years from now... a purple little, little lady would be perfect for dirty, old, and useless clown. So, yeah, ah! Start wearing purple, wearing purple... Start wearing purple for me now... All you sanity and wits, they will all vanish, I promise. It's just a matter of time." ~"Start Wearing Purple" by Gogol Bordello


End file.
